


Jogging

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [10]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay, so let me get this straight.  Essentially you woke up this morning, bench-pressed the dining room table, polished your head to a glorious sheen, and then thought, 'hey, I think I'll be evil today'."  Matt shook his head.  "Does that about cover it, McClane?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jogging

**Author's Note:**

> Though this originally started out as a story for LJ's writerverse comm for two different prompts on two different weeks ("I think I'll be evil today" and "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery"), it finally came together for the "J" prompt at the 1_million_words A to Z Challenge.
> 
> * * *

Matt blinked as the double doors closed behind them, paused to take in the bright white walls, sparkling mirrors and modern equipment. When he'd suggested accompanying John to the gym he'd basically been picturing the battered and bruised sweat-soaked ambiance of _Rocky_ , minus the irascible Burgess Meredith. This was… clean. It even smelled good.

"You coming?"

Matt shook his head, caught up with John as he stopped at one of the gleaming machines facing the wall of mirrors. He jumped when John slapped at the handles. "Okay, so what are we doing?" he asked.

"Hop on."

"Just like that?" Matt studied the machine, all polished grey metal and shining digital monitors, and cocked his head. "What kind of torture do you have planned for me on this thing, McClane?"

"It's a treadmill," John said dryly. "Step up."

"I _know_ it's a treadmill," Matt said. He eyed the machine warily as he stepped onto the conveyer belt. "But these days nothing is what it seems. There's always an angle, some little twist. So I ask again, what kind of inhumane torment are you going to persecute me with on this thing? An app that simulates a pack of wild dogs chasing me? Or zombies! I heard there's one that feigns a zombie attack, so you keep running and running and some dude – this was in Chelsea, completely covered up, total media blackout – this dude actually had a heart attack when he was—"

"You're gonna jog, Matthew, all right?" John said. "A light jog. You remember we covered that in DC?"

Matt narrowed his eyes. "Just jog?"

"Just jog," John confirmed. "Think you can handle that?"

Matt was tempted to point out that they'd already walked all the way from the car to the gym, and walking was kinda like jogging, and since his knee was still a bit sore maybe they could consider that the first workout and move on to the sauna. But one look at John's face – that long-suffering, goddamn kid is driving me crazy look that John had first worn on that Independence Day weekend and had perfected over the last three months – prompted Matt to bite his tongue. "Yeah," he said. "I can jog."

Turned out jogging was a lot more difficult than expected. First, there's the speed of the damn thing. Matt couldn't fail to notice that John had programmed the treadmill at practically the lowest setting, yet it still managed to suck all the breath from his lungs. Seriously, no breath. His chest ached. He couldn't even pay attention to the sometimes-twinge in his knee because it is impossible to catch his breath. Probably how that guy from Chelsea bought it. Then there was the sweat dampening his armpits, seeping through his brand new bought especially for the gym because it highlights his trim physique T-shirt. It was gross. It was disgusting.

… it was John's fault.

Matt shook the damp, stringy hair out of his eyes, glared at John on the opposite machine and then directed the scowl suspiciously to the treadmill. Just jog, my ass. Why did John stop at _this_ specific instrument of torture? John _knew_ that he was a beginner, probably conspired with the staff of this hell hole to fiddle with the settings on the machine so it seemed like he was jogging at a lowly one mile an hour rate when really, _really_ he was struggling to climb the fucking Himalayas. 

Well, Matt was on to him now.

"Think you're so smart," Matt muttered.

"Huh?"

"Okay, so let me get this straight. Essentially you woke up this morning, bench-pressed the dining room table, polished your head to a glorious sheen, and then thought, 'hey, I think I'll be evil today'." Matt shook his head. "Does that about cover it, McClane?"

"Everyone knows I bench-press the hutch, not the dining room table," John answered without looking over. "Don't stop."

Matt glanced down at his feet, which had… well, okay, yeah, he'd sort of stopped moving while he talked. He didn't even remember hitting the off switch. "How do you know I'm not working on an incline right—"

"Don't stop!" John barked out.

Matt didn't want to continue, but instincts honed from seventy-two hours of instantly obeying everything John McClane said had him slamming down on the button. The machine lurched back into service and he made a flailing, off-kilter attempt to grab for the handles before his feet remembered what to do and he began jogging. Again. 

John McClane was going to kill him. No quick death like the dude from Chelsea and his blessed zombie-induced heart attack, oh no. This was going to be meted out slowly, inch by inch, over many, many weeks in this over-oxygenated climate-controlled hell he called a gym.

"Now," John said, "what the fuck were you rambling on about?"

"Two can play at this game, McClane," Matt said. 

John glanced over as if he had no idea what Matt was talking about – riiight – and quirked a brow. The bastard hadn't even broken a sweat. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes," Matt said. He steeled himself, then leaned over so he could see the settings on John's treadmill. He made note of the numbers, then quickly reprogrammed his own machine. The numbers said seven miles at a forty degree incline, but of course that was complete bullshit. 

"Ya know, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, kid," John said.

Matt gritted his teeth. If his own machine had been dicked around with to increase the speed despite what the settings said, then it only made sense that McClane's had been similarly altered… only John's would have had the speed _decreased_. Hence John's easy stride and lack of perspiration. It was the only explanation.

"Matt," John said.

Kind of weird how his machine seemed to be acting up, though. Almost like it was going faster instead of slower. 

"Matthew," John said, his voice suddenly coming from very far away, "you may want to slow it dow—"

* * *

Matt woke up to the mildly concerned look of a very chic personal trainer. "And he's back," she said.

Matt blinked as the woman's face was replaced by John's, looking decidedly less than amused. He blinked again, slowly becoming aware of the cool tile floor at his back and the tiny portable fan blowing sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. He winced. "I passed out?"

"You passed out," John said. "What the fuck were you thinking? It's your first goddamn time, jeeeezus! You could have fuckin' hurt yourself, smash your goddamn head or rip open your fuckin' knee—"

"Got it," Matt said. He tried to lift an arm to stop the diatribe, but found his limb wouldn't obey him. He managed to wave a finger. "Thought you were messing with me."

John scowled down at him. "Messing with… what the fuck are you… I don't even wanna know what goes on in that fuckin' weirdass brain of yours, kid—"

"No, you really don't."

"—but the next time you pull a stunt like that, I'll knock ya out myself!" John knelt back on his haunches, swiped a hand over his scalp. "Jeezus!" he repeated.

Matt could point out that paranoia was in his blood, but that would just start John on another rant about his 'goddamn conspiracy theories' and he'd lived with John McClane long enough to see the fear behind the bluster. He wasn't gonna do that to the guy, not when he'd apparently just scared the shit out of him. So he slapped a palm feebly on John's chest instead. "Still feeling pretty weak," he said.

As expected, John's glower morphed almost instantly into concern. He leaned over Matt again, laid the back of his hand over his cheek before gently sweeping the hair out of his eyes. "You're still hot," he pronounced. "You want me to get ya some water? Maybe a cold cloth for—"

"Nah," Matt said. He lifted his hand again, this time curling his fingers into the fabric of John's faded wife-beater. "Still short of breath, though. Could probably use some mouth to mouth," he said. 

There was a beat where Matt honestly didn't know whether John was going to kiss him or get up and walk away without a second look, leave him lying on the floor in a pool of sweat; then John's mouth curved in a slow smile. "You little shit," he said.

"Is that a yes?"

John closed the distance between them, propped himself on one elbow and snuck his hand behind Matt's head. The angle was still all wrong but Matt felt a rush of adrenalin anyway, and though the dizziness was probably partially from smacking his head on the conveyer belt he still contributed at least sixty-five percent of it to John himself. The man had talent.

He smiled woozily when John pulled away. "I feel better already."

"Christ," John said, still close enough that Matt could feel his breath against his lips, "if I didn't know better I'd say you pulled this damn stunt just to get some action."

Matt shrugged. He really did feel better. A little. "Gotta prove to all these muscle-bound alpha types just who you belong to."

John snorted, levered himself up from the ground with an agility that Matt admired from his prone position on the floor. _That_ angle was just fine. "Come on then, you're feelin' so damn good," he said. "I'll let ya spot me on the bar."

Standing still while watching John's biceps flex was Matt's perfect idea of a workout. He nodded eagerly as John strode across the room – again, _great_ angle, the man could certainly fill out a pair of sweat pants – and moved to get to his feet. Unfortunately his brain said 'stand' and his legs said 'hah loser, you just had us on a seven mile incline, how 'bout you go fuck yourself.' 

It took two trainers and a tubby guy in spandex to get him to his feet, and then he really did need that cold cloth for his forehead. And by the time he finished standing over John half an hour later, watching the man bench press too many pounds to count while muscles strained and perspiration dampened his skin, he also wouldn't have turned down an oxygen mask.

He didn't need the defibrillator until after they finished up in the shower.


End file.
